b*. 


IRLF 


/ 

/ 


THE 


BURNING 


SCHENECTADY, 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS. 


BY  ALFRED  B.  STREET. 


ALBANY : 
WEARE  C.  LITTLE. 

NEW- YORK,   D.    APPLETON  AND    CO. — BOSTON,   LITTLE   AND   BROWX. 
PHILADELPHIA,    CAREY  AND  HART. 

1842. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1842,  by 

ALFRED  B.  STREET, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Northern  District  o.f 
New-York. 


Printed  by  C.  Van  Benthuysen  &  Co.,  Albany. 


TO 

THE  REV.  THOMAS  C.  REED,  M.  A., 

PROFESSOR  IN  UNION  COLLEGE, 

®l)ts  ttoltnne 

AS    A    SLIGHT    TESTIMONIAL    OF    SINCERE   AFFECTION 
IS    INSCRIBED    BY    HIS    FRIEND, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


M5O153Q 


PREFACE. 


The  following  poem  is  principally  descriptive,  with 
a  slight  thread  of  narrative,  and  a  few  incidents  inter 
woven,  illustrating  the  rude  period  of  the  event  de 
signated  by  the  title. 

The  author  has  endeavored  throughout,  to  draw  the 
scenes  in  keeping  with  the  characters  and  customs  of 
frontier  life.  Based  upon  a  well  known  occurrence, 
the  poem  does  not  aim  at  the  continuous  interest  of  a 
tale,  but  consists  merely  of  a  collection  of  sketches 
drawn  around,  but  generally  connected  with,  the  prin 
cipal  event. 


CONTENTS. 

The  Burning  of  Schenectady, 1, 

"  Seek  and  ye  shall  find," 3. 

Angling, 7. 

Faith, 12. 

The  Forsaken  Road, 14. 

Deer  Shooting, 20, 

Home, 25. 

Spearing, 27. 

Moonlight, « 30, 

The  Old  Bridge,   33, 


THE 


BURNING  OF  SCHENECTADY. 


i. 

Our  young  wild  land — the  free — the  proud! 

Uncrush'd  by  power — unaw'd  by  fear, 
Her  knee  to  none  but  God  is  bow'd, 

For  Nature  teaches  Freedom,  here. 
Thus,  when  Oppression's  legions  came, 
Each  heart  leap'd  up  in  quenchless  flame  : 
Valley  and  mountain,  to  the  strife, 

Gave,  and  renew'd  the  destin'd  free, 
Each  sword  a  hearth- wall — every  life 

A  Dragon's  tooth  for  Liberty. 


6  THEBURNINGOF 

II. 

With  baubled  brow,  but  fetter'd  hands, 

And  kingly  hound-fangs  in  his  side, 
Acteeon  Europe,  tottering,  stands 

Mid  Art  and  Nature's  loftiest  pride. 
Manacled  shapes  of  wrong  and  pain, 

Are  crush'd  beneath  each  gorgeous  throne, 
Though  jewelPd  purple  hides  the  chain, 

Though  incense-music  drowns  the  moan ; 
Temples,  where  Genius  hath  enshrin'd 

Its  triumphs,  breathe  their  memories  round; 
But  sacred  temples  of  the  mind, 

In  ruins  strew'd,  are  likewise  found. 

III. 

Our  young  wild  land — we  turn  to  her — 
Her  star  and  Freedom's,  merg'd  in  onej 

As  turns  the  Eastern  worshipper 
To  yield  his  offering  at  the  sun. 


SC  HEN  ECT  A  DY. 

From  gloom  and  snow,  to  light  and  flowers, 
Expands  this  heritage  of  ours: 
Life,  with  its  myriad  hopes,  pursuits, 
Spreads  sails,  rears  roofs,  and  gathers  fruits; 
But  pass  two  fleeting  centuries  back; 

This  land — a  torpid  giant — slept, 
Wrapp'd  in  a  mantle  thick  and  black 

That  o'er  its  mighty  frame  had  crept, 
Since  stars  and  angels  sang,  as  earth 
Shot,  from  its  maker,  into  birth. 


IV. 

Though  of  the  past,  from  no  carv'd  shrines, 
Canvass,  or  deathless  lyres,  we  learn, 

Yet  arbor' d  streams,  and  shadowy  pines 
Are  hung  with  legends  wild  and  stern: 

In  deep  dark  glen — on  mountain  side, 

Are  graves,  whence  stately  trees  have  sprung, 


4  THE    B  URNING    O  F 

Nought  telling  how  the  victims  died, 
Save  faint  Tradition's  faltering  tongue. 

V. 

Tradition — fireside  history — told 

By  trembling  age  to  eager  youth, 
Wild  dreams,  in  memories  dim  and  cold, 

Blent  with  scarce  less  wild  scenes  of  Truth; 
Yet,  'tis  a  soft  and  silvery  light, 
The  moon  of  dark  oblivion's  night; 
Bathing  the  turrets  of  the  past, 
But  leaving  shadows  black  and  vast. 
Giving  the  statued  niche  its  look, 
But  massing  phantoms  in  the  nook, 
Tinting  the  ivy  till  it  twines 
In  laurels,  round  the  dusty  shrines, 
But  casting  not  a  ray  to  trace 
The  darkness  of  the  dungeon's  space. 


SCH  ENECT  AD  Y. 

VI. 

We  seek  no  theme,  where  Europe  broods 
In  chains  o'er  helpless  misery  : 

But  in  our  own  green  glorious  clime. 
Where  roll  our  streams,  and  wave  our  woods, 
And  towers  man's  soul  erect  and  free, 
Tradition-taught,  we  weave  our  rhyme. 


VII. 

An  August  day — a  dreamy  haze 

Films  air,  and  mingles  with  the  skies, 

Sweetly  the  rich  dark  sunshine  plays, 
Bronzing  each  object  where  it  lies, 

Till  stream  and  tree  and  rocky  pyre 

Seem  lit  with  streaks  of  dusky  fire. 

Outlines  are  melted  in  the  gauze 
That  Nature  veils;  the  fitful  breeze, 


O  THEBURNINGOF 

From  the  thick  pine  low  murmuring,  draws; 
And  that  light  Comus  of  the  trees 

The  aspen,  as  the  balmy  rover 

Creeps  by,  with  mirth  is  quivering  over; 

The  bee  is  slumbering  in  the  thistle, 

And,  now  and  then,  a  broken  whistle 

A  tread — a  hum — a  tap — is  heard 

Through  the  dry  leaves,  in  grass  and  tree, 

As  insect,  animal  and  bird 

Rouse,  briefly  from  their  lethargy: 

Then,  e'en  these  pleasant  sounds  would  cease, 
And  a  dead  stillness  all  things  lock, 
The  aspen  seem  like  sculptur'd  rock, 
And  not  a  tassel-thread  be  shaken 
The  parent-pine's  deep  trance  to  waken, 

And  Nature  settle  prone  in  drowsy  peace. 

VIII. 

The  misty  blue — the  distant  masses, 
The  air,  in  woven  purple  glimmering; 


SCHENECTADY.  7 

The  shiver  transiently  that  passes 
Ove  rthe  leaves,  as  though  each  tree 
Gave  one  brief  sigh — the  slumberous  shimmering 
Of  the  red  light — invested  seem 
With  some  sweet  charm,  that  soft,  serene, 
Mellows  the  gold — the  blue — the  green 
Into  mild  tempered  harmony, 

And  melts  the  sounds  that  intervene, 
As  scarce  to  break  the  quiet,  till  we  deem 
Nature  herself  transform' d  to  that  of  Fancy's  dream. 


IX. 

A  narrow  valley,  wall'd  by  mountains — 

A  winding  river  gliding  through, 
Lucid  as  though  its  silver  fountains 

Were  born  from,  and  were  fed  by  dew- 
Here,  spreads  its  mirror  to  the  day, 

Round  thicket-isles  with  pointed  sands, 
To  which,  the  crane,  on  watch  for  prey, 


THE   BURNING    OF 

Wades,  and  with  neck  low  arching  stands. 
There  the  thick  alder-branches  weave 

A  verdant  net  beside,  across, 
So  dense  and  dark  as  scarce  to  leave 

Glimpse  of  the  water's  sliding  gloss. 
Along,  are  scattered  willow-groups, 

Their  yellow  sprays  the  surface  tipping, 
And,  roots  half  loose,  half  clinging,  stoops, 

The  elm,  its  slant  boughs  deeply  dipping, 
Making  the  stream  with  bubbles  wroth 

That,  wheeling  into  coverts  deep, 
Mingle  to  clumps  of  snowy  froth3 

Whence,  flakes  detach'd,  slow  melting,  creep; 
The  forest,  in  tall  column'd  ranks, 
Forming  mass'd  backgrounds  to  the  banks. 

X. 

Near  a  smooth  marge,  whose  grassy  brinks 
Dip  to  the  water's  ripple-links, 


SC  HENE  CTAD  Y. 

A  square  back-slanting  palisade 

Around  a  hamlet  rude  is  trac'd  ; 
An  octagon  loop'd  fortress,  made 

Of  trunks,  within  one  angle  placed  : 
Here,  the  slim  brown-brick  dwelling  towers, 

With  terrac'd  gable — sharp,  steep  roof, 
Walls  iron-letter'd, — turret- vanes, 
Sashes  of  lead,  and  diamond  panes, 
And  there,  the  rough  log-fabric  cowers, 

As  scarce  to  keep  the  storms  aloof. 
The  trader's  stooping  shed  appears, 

Broad  swings  the  tavern-sign  in  air ; 
While,  midst  of  all,  the  stone  church  rears 

Its  long  low  frame,  and  belfry  square. 


XL 

Around  the  palisade  a  space, 

Of  human  toil,  bears  smiling  trace  : 


10  THEBURNINGOF 

In  phalanx  deep,  the  plume-tipp'd  maize 
Brown  fringe,  and  green  sheath'd  ear,  displays. 
Beside,  the  umber  rye  field  stands 
With  tribute  for  the  reaper's  hands  : 
Here,  meadow  with  its  shaven  brow, 
Here,  field  just  furrowed  with  the  plough  ; 
There — the  huge  broad-leaf 'd  vine  surrounds, 

Its  globes  rolPd  out  on  slender  stems, 
The  green  potatoe's  cluster'd  mounds 

Just  bursting  into  purple  gems  : 
Then,  spreads,  with  scattered  bush  and  rock, 

The  pasture's  short  thick  sward  of  grass, 
Where  stamping  steed,  and  nibbling  flock, 

And  cropping  herd,  slow  moving,  pass. 
Here,  up  the  hill,  a  ghastly  glade, 
Block'd  from  the  green  surrounding  shade, 
Of  the  keen  axe,  shows  recent  fruits, 
In  chaos-heaps  of  trunks  and  roots; 
There,  the  fierce  fires  have  claim'd  their  spoil 


SCHENECTADY.  11 

From  off  the  burn'd  and  blacken'd  soil. 
Save  where  dark  stump,  and  cinder'd  tree, 
Stand,  spectre-like,  and  mournfully. 

XII. 

Round  this  half  wild,  half  rural  scene, 

Stretch'd  boundless,  like  the  billowy  deep, 
In  differing  shapes  and  shades  of  green, 

The  forests,  thick  and  trackless,  sweep. 
In  hollows  dark,  the  hemlocks  con'd, 
Pines,  with  tall  trunks,  on  summits  thron'd, 
Maples  upon  each  sloping  ridge, 
Elms,  that  the  waters,  fringe  and  bridge, 
Dense  laurels,  filling  swamps,  with  screens, 
And  fir-trees  slanting  o'er  ravines. 

XIII 

The  forest  cinctur'd  spot  is  rife 

With  pleasant  sights  and  sounds  of  life. 


12  THEBURNINGOF 

Groups  dot  each  grass-strip'd  village  street, 

Hammer  and  saw  and  scythe  are  ringing, 
From  field,  come  neigh,  and  low,  and  bleat, 

On  mountain-lot  the  axe  is  swinging, 
Ey  river-side,  is  poled  along 
The  rough  batteau,  with  laugh  and  song, 
Whilst  o'er  the  mossy  root-strewn  road, 

The  Indian,  with  his  furs,  is  treading; 
And  oxen,  to  the  call  and  goad, 

Issue  from  vistas  each  side  spreading. 
A  frontier  picture  ;  but  a  germ 

Of  that  wide-branch' d  prosperity, 
Top,  green  and  high — base,  wide  and  firm, 

Whose  ripen'd  fruits  now  bless  the  free. 


XIV. 

The  beamless  sun  enlarges  now, 
Upon  the  western  mountain's  brow  ; 


SCHENECTADY.  13 

His  orb  is  broken  into  gems 

Red  twinkling  through  the  leaves  and  stems  ; 

Viewing  the  quiet  loveliness, 

Two  figures  seek  the  river's  side, 
One  with  blue  eye  and  auburn  tress, 

And  one  in  manhood's  strength  and  pride. 
Arm  lock'd  in  arm,  they  roam  along, 
Now  listening  to  the  thresher's  song, 
Now  watching,  where  some  straggling  ray, 
Touches  of  light,  casts  round  their  way  : 
Love  coloring  all  things  with  its  glow, 
Blending  their  hearts  in  one  sweet  flow 
Of  music,  lengthening  to  their  gaze, 
A  future  of  sweet  happy  days; 
Like  some  fair  landscape  that  we  see, 
Soft  tinted  into  harmony, 
Stretching  away,  and  melting  bright 
Within  a  blaze  of  golden  light. 


14  THEBURN1NGOF 

XV. 

Sybrant,  the  lily's  purple  gem, 
Gathers  from  its  long  spotted  stem, 

To  wreathe  in  Lyntie's  glossy  hair, 
Or  points,  where  on  the  western  haze 
The  trees  seem  fusing  in  a  blaze 

Like  gold  dust  sparkling  through  the  air. 


XVI. 

Wild  is  their  walk;  the  stream,  beyond 
Spreads  to  a  broad  and  mirror'd  pond  ; 
The  muskrat,  at  the  coming  foe 

His  burrow  seeks  writh  splashing  leap, 
His  pathway,  through  the  ooze  below, 

Shown  by  a  line  upon  the  deep : 
The  otter  darts,  in  backward  slide, 
Down  the  steep  gravelly  water  side: 
From  yon  deep  nook,  where  boughs  o'erlean. 


SCHENECTADY.  15 

And  melts  the  light  in  golden  green, 
The  duck,  her  yellow  brood,  leads  out, 
Dipping  their  tiny  bills  about, 
At  the  quick  waterspider's  bound, 
And  the  gray  gnat  swarms  dancing  round. 

XVII. 

The  river  then,  through  pine  trees  tall, 

Leads  to  a  wide  spread  placid  sheet 
Dome  sprinkl'd,  with  a  low  broad  fall, 

The  timid  beaver's  wild  retreat. 
Here,  on  the  banks,  the  sapling  gnawing 
There,  for  the  dam  the  branches  drawing 
Now  peering  from  their  huts  of  clay 
Now  sporting  on  their  liquid  way 
The  tenants  of  the  little  lake, 

Each  in  its  sphere  of  bustling  strife4 
This  lonely  spot  of  Nature,  make 

A  mimic  scene  of  human  life, 


16  THEBURNINGOF 

But  as  strange  footsteps  press  the  brink, 
Dark  heads  within  each  hovel  shrink, 
Shapes  swiftly  glide  from  tree  and  bough, 
Quick  plunges  ring  the  basin's  brow, 
And,  o'er  the  water  and  the  wood, 
Silence  sleeps  deep  with  solitude. 


XVIII. 

Homeward  they  turn — green  roofs  o'erhead, 
And  cluster'd  thickets  round  them  spread  ; 
A  blossom  glows  to  Lyntie's  eyes, 
Aside  she  turns  to  gain  the  prize, 
Back  she  recoils  with  sudden  cry, 

From  the  dense  thicket,  wild  and  fierce, 
Gleams,  on  her  startled  gaze,  an  eye, 

That  seems  her  very  soul  to  pierce. 
As  Sybrant  rushes  to  her  aid, 


SCHENECTADY.  17 

A  form  steps  quickly  from  the  shade  ; 
"  Tis  but  La  Moyne,  his  friends  to  greet," 
A  voice  exclaims,  in  accents  sweet. 
With  smiles,  and  kindly  words,  the  pair 
Their  welcome  to  the  comer  bear  ; 
Tall  and  erect  his  form — his  brow 

Though  of  deep  passions,  wearing  trace, 
With  pleasant  smiles  wras  brighten'd  now, 

And  o'er  his  mien  shone  courtly  grace. 
As  on  the  three  pursued  their  way, 
He  charm'd  the  walk  with  converse  gay  ; 
Much  had  he  mingled  in  the  strife, 
And  seen  the  pomp  and  glow  of  life; 
Ardent  and  eloquent,  his  tongue 
Around  his  thoughts  a  magic  flung 
That,  without  seeming  art,  beguil'd 
The  untaught  dwellers  of  the  wild. 
Oft  had  he  been  the  hamlet's  guest, 
Lending  its  simple  life  a  zest, 


18  THE     BURNING      OF 

Till  all,  in  friendship's  chain,  were  bound, 

And  welcomes  glad,  from  all  he  found. 

The  scout,  secur'd  an  ear  to  hark 

Of  winding  trail  and  ambush  dark, 

And  heard,  in  turn,  the  stranger  tell 

Of  battlefield,  and  citadel  : 

The  hunter,  found  a  listener  keen, 

To  toilsome  chase  in  forests  green, 

And  thrill'd  at  triumphs  won,  where  reigns 

The  lion  on  his  desert  plains, 

And  e'en  the  trader's  shanty,  strew'd 

With  furs,  and  bales,  and  baubles  rude, 

Re-echoed  to  a  merry  throng, 

As  plied  La  Moyne,  tale,  jest  and  song. 


XIX. 

With  wide  expanded  feet,  like  wings, 
The  flying  squirrel  shoots  his  way, 
And  grating  on  its  tiny  strings, 


SCH  ENECT  AD  Y.  19 

The  cricket  shrills  its  evening  lay; 
The  crossbill  tolls  its  curfew  near, 
Tinkling,  like  silver,  sweet  and  clear, 
The  other  air-boats,  moor'd  in  nest, 
Twitter  and  chirp  themselves  to  rest; 
Observant  of  each  sight  and  sound, 
La  Moyne  directs  attention  round; 
As  youth  and  maiden  turn,  his  eye 

From  his  drawn  brows,  would  flash  and  roll, 

Lit  by  a  spark  that  seem'd  to  fly 

t 
From  fiercest  burnings  of  his  soul. 

At  Lyntie  as  it  gleams,  the  light 
Is  passion  in  its  wildest  might ; 
But  as  o'er  Sybrant  shoots  the  glare, 
Hatred  deep,  demonlike,  is  there. 

XX. 

But  now  their  quicken' d  footsteps  beat 
The  hamlet's  wide  and  straggling  street; 


20  THE     BURN  IN  G     OF 

The  west  with  second  pomp  is  bright, 

Though  in  the  east  the  dusk  is  thickening. 
Twilight's  first  star  breaks  forth  in  white 

Into  night's  gold  each  moment  quickening, 
The  red-sleev'd  boatman,  to  the  shore, 

Fastens  with  withes  his  long  batteau; 
On  slant-roof 'd  stoop — by  half-swung  door, 

Matron  and  sire  enjoy  the  glow 
Glancing  from  off  the  looks  that  Day 
Turns  back  upon  his  downward  way. 
With  shoulder'd  axe,  and  greeting  speech, 

The  woodsman  saunters  from  the  hill, 
And  from  the  grainfield's  nodding  reach 

The  reaper  comes  with  whistle  shrill, 
And  soon,  each  pointed  pane  shows  bright 
That  household  star — the  candle-light. 

XXI. 

The  golden  solstice  passes  by 

With  long  soft  twilights — glittering  days, 


SC  HEN  ECT  A  DY.  21 

Autumn's  rich  garb  and  gorgeous  sky 
And  Indian  Summer's  purple  haze 
Quick  vanish,  as  the  stormy  North 
Sends  the  fierce  Tyrant,  Winter,  forth, 
To  pall  the  air — strike  Nature  dumb, 
And  guard  with  robes  her  slumbers  numb. 


XXII. 

Another  picture — mountain-wall — 
Valley  and  river,  spread  below, 
Late  fresh  and  bright  with  summer,  all 

Now  cloth' d  in  one  wide  sheet  of  snow: 
Showing  a  pale  and  ghastly  scene, 
Save  wrhere  pines  left  their  spires  of  green, 
And  surly  hemlocks,  pointing  high, 
Braid  network  masses  on  the  sky. 
The  arch  soars  o'er  in  dazzling  blue, 
No  cloud  to  dim  the  sapphire  hue. 


22  THEBURNINGOF 

And  where  the  boundless  sunshine  streams. 
Flash  diamond  showers, — dart  shifting  gleams. 
The  village  roofs,  beneath  the  glare, 

Glitter  like  slanting  silver  plates, 
Rises  the  palisaded  square 

Mound-bas'd  and  capp'd  with  frozen  loads, 

While  snow  piles  block  the  open  gates, 

Where,  each  way,  stretch  the  trodden  roads. 
The  rough  grim  fort  looks  darkly  out 
From  deep  banks  curv'd  and  heap'd  about, 
And,  lifts  the  church  its  belfry-vane 
O'ercrusted  with  a  frosty  chain. 


XXIII. 

Beside  the  trader's  log  shap'd  walls. 
Where,  with  light  warmth,  the  sun-beam  falls, 
Which,  the  slow  plashing  droppings  tell 
From  every  tinted  icicle, 


SCHENECTADY.  23 

Soldiers  and  villagers  around. 

With  here  and  there  a  panting  hound, 

A  group  of  weary  hunters  stands, 

Just  breathing  from  their  forest  toil, 
Their  rifles  propp'd  beneath  their  hands, 

Whilst  round  them  lie  their  wild-wood  spoil: 
The  brindled  panther,  late  crouch' d  grim 
And  moaning,  on  the  covert-limb; 
The  deer,  this  morn,  that  bounded  swift 
O'er  the  chok'd  runway's  treacherous  drift ; 
From  his  block'd  swamp  the  wolf,  and  bear, 
Rous'd,  dizzy,  in  his  torpid  lair. 


XXIV. 

The  well-known  tempting  porch  within, 
Strides  the  red  Mohawk,  proud  and  shy. 

Spreading  his  glossy  beaver-skin 
Before  the  trader's  scanning  eye, 


24  THE     BURNING     OF 

Who  greets,  in  turn,  the  Indian's  sight, 
With  blanket  gay,  and  trinket  bright. 

XXV. 

At  length  the  wearied  trader  treads, 

His  shanty  lock'd  with  bolt  and  bar, 
To  where  its  warmth  his  hearth-fire  sheds, 

And  wing'd  thought  seeks  his  home  afar  : 
His  "  father  land,"  still  lov'd,  he  sees, 
Its  vineyards  trembling  to  the  breeze, 
And  purpling  in  the  sunshine  warm, 

He  hears  the  swift  crag-castled  Rhine 
Dashing — he  starts — day,  sinking  low, 
But  glimmers  on  a  waste  of  snow, , 

The  sound  is  surging  from  the  pine 
Swung  wildly  by  the  rising  storm. 


SCHENECTADY.  25 

XXVI. 

The  guard-room  of  the  fort — the  walls 

Pierc'd  with  long  narrow  loops,  and  hung 

With  scabbard,  bayonet-sheath  and  plume; 
The  fire  on  steel  clasp'd  muskets  falls 

And  in  faint  wavering  glance  is  flung 

O'er  the  deep  nook'd,  high  rafter'd  gloom. 
On  benches  stretch'd,  a  soldier-throng 

Listen,  in  careless  ease,  to  one 
Whose  skin  garb'd  figure  lithe  but  strong, 

Sharp  features  tann'd  by  wind  and  sun, 
And  eye  of  keen  and  shifting  flame, 
The  frontier  scout,  half  wild,  proclaim. 
In  speech  uncouth,  quick  gestures  eking, 

He  tells  them  of  an  unknown  trail 
Struck,  whilst,  this  morn,  a  moose-haunt  seeking, 

And  traced  in  snow  o'er  hill  and  vale 
Till  branching  in  such  devious  ways 
It  baffled  e'en  his  practis'd  gaze. 


26  THE     BURNING     OF 

Eut  wrapp'd  in  false  security 
They  drown  his  voice  in  jibing  glee; 
To  none  his  tale  hath  credence  brought, 
Though  every  dwelling  has  been  sought, 
And  all  the  village  dames  have  seen 
An  Indian  group,  of  foreign  mien, 
With  eyes,  that  stealthily  survey'd 
Dwelling,  and  fort,  and  palisade, 
Straying  around,  though  bearing  each 
Burthens  of  skins,  yet  mute  in  speech, 
Save  answering  brief  to  every  quest, 
They  were  but  traders  from  the  west ; 
Oh  little  did  sweet  Lyntie  deem, 

As  at  one  form  she  glanc'd  uncaring, 
La  Moyne's  fierce  eyes,  from  out  the  gleam 

Of  masquing  paint,  were  on  her  glaring. 
And  little  did  brave  Sybrant  know, 

On  this,  his  joyous  bridal  day, 
There  stood  his  deepest  deadliest  foe 

Exultant  o'er  the  destin'd  prey. 


SCHENECTADT.  27 

XXVII. 

The  stooping  sun  has  found  a  shroud 
Within  a  thick  gray  rising  cloud: 
A  damp  and  chilling  wind  is  fluttering 
Through  the  slight  softening  air,  and  muttering 
In  low  sounds,  down  a  wild  ravine 

Whose  sides  jut  out  in  rocky  ledges, 
And  either  hand,  huge  pine  trees  lean, 

Grasping,  with  snakelike  roots,  the  edges, 
Shaping  a  bristling  bower  o'erhead, 

Scarce  pervious  to  the  winter  snow, 
Where  frozen  moss,  and  pine-fringe,  spread 

Carpets,  of  brown  and  green,  below: 
In  summer,  tis  a  fair  retreat, 
Sleeping  in  shadows,  cool  and  sweet, 
The  breeze,  the  murmuring  branches,  tossing, 
The  fitful  streaks  of  sunshine  crossing, 
With  chirping  of  the  flitting  bird, 
As  steps,  the  brooding  silence,  stirr'd  ; 


28  THE     BURNING      OF 

A  place  for  day  dreams,  e'er  the  heart 
Has  felt  its  fresh  green  spring  depart, 
Leaving  an  arid  waste  instead, 
Of  blighted  hopes,  and  feelings  dead. 

XXVIII. 

A  large  wild  looking  throng  of  men 
Is  gathered  in  that  sheltered  glen, 
Cloth' d  in  the  Indian's  warlike  dress, 
To  tread  the  winter  wilderness, 
Cassocs  of  hair  around  them  lac'd, 
With  knife  and  hatchet  at  the  waist, 
The  bullet-pouch  and  powder  horn 
Around  each  brawny  shoulder  borne: 
Tall  muskets  slung  upon  their  backs, 
Or  plac'd  for  instant  use  in  stacks, 
With  beaver's  fur  the  temples  capp'd, 
Thick  deer-skin  leggins  downward  wrapp'd 


SCHENECTADY.  29 

To  the  quilPd  moccasin's  warm  sheath, 
The  broad  flat  snow-shoe  thong' d  beneath. 
Yet  though  alike  the  features  show 
The  war-paint's  black  and  crimson  glow. 
A  steadfast  scrutinizing  gaze, 

The  whiteman,  in  his  oval  face, 
And  Indian,  in  his  serpent  blaze 

Of  eye,  and  bony  cheeks,  could  trace. 


XXIX. 

The  kindled  pine-knots,  spattering,  stream, 
Dimm'd  by  the  sun,  in  pallid  gleam. 
To  feed  the  pile  high  blazing,  some 
Cleave  splinters,  blister'd  thick  with  gum, 
Or  from  the  faded  hemlocks  near, 

Their  withered  bark  of  tinder  peel, 
While  others,  from  a  slaughter'd  deer. 


30  THEBURNINGOF 

Busily  dress  their  forest  meal. 
Some  couch  upon  the  frozen  ground, 
Some  launch  their  tomahawks  around, 
Where  twisted  root,  and  bending  tree 
Stand,  fancied,  for  an  enemy. 


XXX. 

.But  now,  quick  striding  forms,  they  note 
Along  the  hollow's  darkening  throat. 
They  hail  the  band  with  guarded  shouts, 
La  Moyne  returning  with  his  scouts ! 
The  seeming  traders,  that  so  free 
Thy  precincts  trod,  Schenectady ! 
Oh  hadst  thou  not  the  danger  scorn'd, 
Of  which  the  trail  too  truly  warn'd, 
Nor  scoff 'd  at  him,  whose  instincts  caught 
The  woe  with  which  its  sight  was  fraught, 


SCHENECTADY.  31 

Then  hadst  thou  scap'd  the  flame's  red  breath, 
Despair,  and  agony,  and  death. 


XXXI. 

Day,  in  the  lowest  west  now  cowers, 

The  lustrous  mantle  with  him  borne 
That,  since  his  flight  on  wings  of  hours 

From  the  east's  portal,  he  had  worn. 
In  place,  the  dull  thick  cloud  has  spread 
Its  dusky  blotting  haze  o'erhead, 
Close  narrowing  the  horizon's  bound; 

While  a  few  snow-flakes,  swerving,  sail, 
Like  blossoms,  that  the  breath  of  May 
Shakes  from  the  white  garb'd  cherry-spray, 

Then  thickening  to  a  light,  loose  veil 
Woven  of  spangles,  fluttering  round: 
Wilder  the  flakes  chaotic  teem 
Until  the  gauzy  atoms  stream 


32  THE      BURNING      OF 

In  slant  lines  downwards  steadily 

On  mountain,  valley,  roof  and  tree, 

Save  when  the  wind,  now  rising  fast 

To  the  full  fury  of  a  blast, 

Fitfully  sweeps  the  gray  streak'd  haze 

Into  a  dim  and  whirling  maze. 

The  village  dwellings  scarcely  show 

Their  outlines  in  the  mist  of  snow: 

Round  the  church  belfry,  whirls  and  floats 

A  quivering  swrarm  of  silvery  motes, 

And  a  white  netlike  curtain  falls 

Across  the  fort's  large  looming  walls. 

No  colors  tell  the  daylight's  pass, 

But  darkness  thickens  to  a  mass. 

The  blast,  arous'd,  sweeps  wildly  by^ 

First,  with  far  moan  and  wailing  cry, 

Then  in  fierce  shocks,  like  surges  sent 

Dashing  across  the  firmament. 

High  o'er  the  deep  ton'd  rush,  a  clear 


SCHENECTADY.  33 

Keen  piercing  whistle  strikes  the  ear, 
As  though  the  blast,  by  fiends  bestrode, 
Shriek'd  wild  beneath  their  torturing  goad. 
Through  the  black  gloom,  hurl'd  clouds  of  snow 
Spinning  aloft  and  dashing  low, 
Shoot  in  an  instant  flash  of  white, 
Athwart  the  gazer's  dizzy  sight. 

XXXII. 

The  pines,  as  sweeps  the  tempest  o'er, 
Now  roll  out  sounds  like  ocean's  roar. 
Now  hiss,  as  though  they  sought,  in  rage, 

Tossing  their  strong  arms  high  and  free, 
Fierce  freedom-striving  war  to  wage 

Against  their  rushing  enemy. 
In  circling  robes  of  scatter'd  snow 
They  twist  and  bend  in  struggling  throe 
As  falls  the  drifted  avalanche, 


34  THE      BURNING      OF 

They  tremble  to  their  inmost  branch. 
Then,  shaking  off  their  loads,  again, 
They  wild  renew  the  conflict  vain. 

XXXIII. 

Hours  creep  apace — the  storm  more  wild  ; 
More  high  the  drifts  are  dash'd  and  pil'd, 
And  thicker,  through  the  pall  of  night, 
Flakes  stream  and  whirl  in  ghastly  white. 

XXXIV. 

Within  a  hut  of  logs,  around 

Its  hearth,  the  hunters  group  together: 
They  hear  the  madden' d  tempest's  sound — 

They  mark  the  frost  the  casement  feather- 
The  crackling  fire  casts  glances  red, 
Upon  the  rafters  cross' d  o'erhead, 


SCH  ENECT  AD  Y. 

On  huge  moose-antlers,  ruddy  shines, 
Chequers  the  garments  from  their  tines. 
Bathes  paw  of  bear,  and  panther's  tusk, 

Otter's,  and  beaver's  glossy  hides, 
And  water-rat's  brown  skin  of  musk, 

Hung  round  the  cabin's  bulging  sides, 
While  in  the  corners  of  each  wall 
Are  group'd  the  rifles  slim  and  tall: 
The  hounds  are  crouching  by  the  blaze, 
Slow  winking  in  their  dozing  gaze, 
Hearing  the  drops  of  sap  exude 
In  shrill  hiss,  from  the  steaming  wood. 
Within,  the  rich  warm  ruby  light, 
Without,  the  black  cold  stormy  night, 
Contrasting,  kindle  in  the  breast, 
Feelings  of  comfort  and  of  rest. 

XXXV. 

In  slumber  wrapp'd,  the  trader  lies. 

The  wind-steed's  trample  through  the  skies 


35 


36  THEBURNINGOF 

And  other  noises  of  the  night 

People  his  dreams  with  visions  dread, 
That  awful  rush  !  is  that  the  flight 

Of  the  Hartz-demon,  vengeance-led, 
From  his  black  haunt,  his  wrath  to  wreak1? 
Is  that  the  flying  victim's  shriek? 
Are  those  wild  sounds,  its  mournful  cries 
Astalon-grasp'd,  it  slowly  dies? 
The  slumberer  wakes — the  sweeping  blast 

Bears  on  the  panther's  thrilling  scream, 
The  wolf's  sad  howl  is  lengthening  past, 

The  mystic  voices  of  his  dream, 
And  as  the  visions  leave  his  brain, 
Into  deep  rest  he  glides  again. 


XXXVI. 

Circling  a  table — flagon-strew'd — 
The  soldiers  sit  in  jocund  mood. 


SCHENECT  ADY. 

Around  the  fort  the  tempest  howls. 
Thick  solid  seeming  darkness  scowls, 
But  what  reck  they  ?  with  song  and  shout 

Merrily  speeds  the  festive  scene, 
Loud  laughter  greets  the  tawny  scout 

As  starting,  when,  more  shrill  and  keen 
Swells  on  the  ear  the  furious  gale, 
He  mutters  of  the  morning's  trail. 
One,  the  most  reckless  of  the  band 

Viewing  the  scout  with  scornful  eyes, 
Fierce  smites  the  table  with  his  hand, 

And  swinging  high  his  goblet,  cries 
"  Fill,  comrades,  fill,  the  wine  is  bright! 
We'll  drink  the  soldier's  life  to-night. 
Sing,  comrades,  sing,  the  wind  shall  be 
The  chorus  to  our  harmony. 
This  talk  forbear,  no  trails  we  fear! 
Thy  boding's  nought — no  foe  is  near! 
A  guardian  kind  is  Winter  old! 

He  rears  his  barriers,  white  and  cold, 
D 


38  THE     BURNING     OF 

His  frozen  forests  fill  the  track 
Between  us  and  fierce  Frontenac. 
Hark  to  the  blast,  how  wild  his  sweep ! 
He  shouts  his  chorus  strong  and  deep; 
How  beats  the  snow!  we  envy  not 
This  bitter  night,  the  sentry's  lot. 
Our  comrades  at  the  gates,  must  feel 
The  driving  sleet,  like  points  of  steel! 
Fill,  and  let  thanks  to  Fortune  flow, 
For  wine  and  fire,  not  blast  and  snow. 
Fill,  till  the  brim  is  gleaming  bright, 
We'll  drink  the  soldier's  life  to-night!" 


XXXVII. 

Merrily  sounds  the  music  strain! 
Merrily  tread  the  bridal  train ! 
Merrily,  merrily,  song  and  jest 
Echoes  find  in  every  breast! 


SCH  ENECT  AD  Y. 

Lyntie  smiles  a  blushing  bride, 
Sybrant  joyous  at  her  side, 
Seems  not  earth  an  Eden  bright 
To  their  cloudless,  blissful  sighf? 

XXXVIII. 

Amid  the  pleasure-seeking  band, 
Gayest,  the  faithless  sentries  stand; 
As  loudly  rings  the  bridal  cheer 
One  whispers  in  the  other's  ear, 
"  Sure  comrade,  this  is  better  fate, 
Than  holding  musket  at  a  gate ! 
Let  the  frost  sting — the  wind  rush  by ! 
Our  shapes  of  snow  can  both  defy. 
Our  captain,  trust  me,  comes  not  forth 
To  face  this  blustering  of  the  North, 
And  in  the  gloom,  no  eye  can  tell 
Image  of  snow  from  sentinel! 
Black  Brom,  with  nimble  elbow,  brings 


39 


40  THE     BURN  ING     OF 

Feet-lifting  music  from  his  strings; 
Come  to  the  dance,  and  let  us  spend 
The  hours,  until  our  watch  shall  end." 

XXXIX. 

Forth  from  the  howling  forests,  slow, 

Stemming  the  fury  of  the  blast, 
Dark  throngs  are  striving  through  the  snowr 

They  reach  the  palisade  at  last. 
Each  knife  is  bar'd,  each  musket  grasp'd, 
For  strength  renew'd  the  breath  is  gasp'd, 
Amidst  its  drifts  the  gate,  wide  spread, 
Seems  to  invite  the  entering  tread, 
On — ha,  a  sentry  here!  but  no! 
The  hatchet  sinks  in  shapen'd  snow; 
Quick,  through  the  passage,  rush  the  band, 
Quick  they  divide  on  every  hand; 
Lonely  and  trackless  are  the  streets 

Block' d  with  deep  banks — no  light — no  sound 


S  CHENE  CTAD  Y  .  41 


Within  the  dwellings,  group'd  around. 
The  wind,  about  each  corner,  beats, 
Whirling  the  drifts  in  blinding  sheets; 
Montigni  leads — a  light  breaks  near, 
The  hunters  bending  o'er  their  cheer! 
Another  streaks  with  bronze  a  pine, 
Fast  slumbering  trader,  it  is  thine! 
Mantet  draws  near  the  fort — within 
Loud  swells  the  reckless  wassail-din! 
La  Moyne  beside  a  window  stoops, 
Merrily  step  the  dancing  groups! 
Till  round  each  roof-tree  is  the  foe 
With  weapons  ready  for  the  blow. 


XL. 

One  moment  more — still  deep  the  cheer! 
Still  runs  the  dream  its  wild  career! 
Still  flows  the  wine-cup  free  and  red! 

And  still  to  music  bounds  the  tread! 

D* 


42  THE      BURNING      OF 

VVhiie  every  other  fabric  seems 
Cast  in  the  solemn  spell  of  dreams; 
The  next;  more  fierce,  more  terrible 
Than  the  wild  tempest's  wildest  swell 
So  blended  that  they  seem  one  yell 

The  war-whoops  burst  upon  the  scene; 
A  thousand  frighted  eagles,  driven 
From  eyrie-peaks  by  lightnings  riven, 
A  thousand  madden'd  panthers,  dashing 
Midst  forest-fires  all  round  them  flashing, 

Awake  not  sounds  more  wild  and  keen7 
Than  those  that  rend  and  pierce  the  air, 
Now  here — now  there — now  everywhere 
Quick  swell  on  swell — as  though  had  risen 
The  loosen'd  demons  from  their  prison 

To  howl  and  riot  through  the  night, 
And,  mingling  with  those  horrid  cries,, 
Crashings  of  door  and  casement  rise 

With  shrieks  of  agony  and  flight: 


SCHENECTADY.  43 

Woe,  to  the  death  surrounded,  woe! 

In  vain  the  rushings  to  and  fro ! 

In  vain  the  flight! — the  hatchet's  blow 

The  knife's  quick  plunge — the  crimson  flow 

The  heavy  fall — the  triumph  yell 

The  scream,  the  groan,  sad  havoc  tell. 

La  Moyne,  in  headlong  fury,  dashes 

With  his  wild  band,  amidst  the  dance. 
His  eye,  in  stern,  triumphant  flashes 

Meets  Lyntie's  terror-stricken  glance; 
He  hears  her  shriek  through  ringing  whoops, 
He  sees  her  form  through  struggling  groups, 
Sybrant  is  at  her  side,  with  knife 
Torn  from  a  savage  in  the  strife, 
Deadly  and  quick  the  blade  is  gleaming, 
But  blood  from  many  a  wound  is  streaming, 
La  Moyne  has  reach'd  them — lifted  high 

His  hatchet  sinks — as  Sybrant  gasps 
Dying  beneath,  with  eager  cry 


44  THE      BURNING      OF 

Lyntie's  crouch'd  swooning  form,  he  grasps. 
He  bears  her  to  the  door,  but  dash'd 

Asunder  by  the  rushing  crowd — 
A  wandering  tomahawk  has  flash' d — 

Again  her  shriek  rings  wild  and  loud, 
Her  blood  is  gushing  red  and  fast, 
A  quivering  sigh — it  is  her  last. 
Motionless  stands  La  Moyne,  about 
Flash  torch  and  steel,  swell  scream  and  shout, 
Motionless  stands  he,  where,  oh  where 

His  lawless  hopes — his  passion  burning, 
To  the  fierce  writhings  of  despair, 

To  everlasting  curses,  turning! 
For  this,  through  weary  days,  his  feet 
The  boundless  winter  snows  had  beat, 
For  this,  his  hand  has  help'd  to  send 
The  bolt  on  those  that  call'd  him  friend, 
The  cloud  has  melted  at  his  breath ! 
He  grasp'd  at  bliss  and  finds  but  death ! 


SCHENECTADY.  45 

XLI. 

Fiercer,  the  tide  of  slaughter  swells, 
Fast  plies  the  torch,  wild  burst  the  yells, 
The  war-whoop  fills  the  trader's  ear, 

He  sees,  just  waken'd  from  his  dream, 

The  Caughnewaga's  eye-balls  gleam. 
Up  as  he  starts  in  shuddering  fear, 
Down  falls  the  cold,  keen,  searching  knife, 

And  weltering  in  his  couch  of  red 
He  feels  amidst  his  gasps  for  life, 

The  clutch' d  scalp  peeling  from  his  head. 
The  hunters  to  their  rifles  bound — 
In  vain — in  vain — the  foe  is  round ! 
Quick  arms  the  tomahawk  are  flinging, 
The  musket  loud  and  fast  is  ringing, 
Dark  figures,  at  their  throats,  are  springing, 

Woe  to  the  struggling  hunters,  woe! 
At  dawn,  the  trotting  moose  may  speed, 
The  deer  in  laurel  thickets  feed, 


46  THEBURNINGOF 

And  the  wolf  sleep — with  nought  to  heed, 
They,  who  so  oft  had  made  them  bleed, 
The  coverts,  never  more  shall  know. 

XLII. 

High  towers  the  smoke — fierce  burst  the  flames, 

Down  crash  in  heaps  the  dwelling  frames, 

Fearfully  black,  the  sky  scowls  o'er, 

Fearfully  bright,  the  fire-floods  pour 

Their  splendor;  while  like  sable  walls, 

Around  the  close  horizon  falls. 

Red  embers  mix  with  showering  flakes, 

Shrieks  rise,  roofs  sink,  forms  struggle  past, 
And  the  shrill  quavering  war-whoop  shakes 

In  peals  upon  the  howling  blast. 
Here  aims  Montigni's  musket — there 
Red  Agnier's  hatchet  cuts  the  air, 
D'Iberville's  tread  is  told  by  screams. 
The  knife  of  Repentigni  gleams, 


SCHENECTADY.  47 

The  mother,  at  the  shiver'd  door 

Dying,  beholds  her  infant,  dash'd 
In  shrieks,  upon  the  groaning  floor 

Smear' d  with  crush' d  brain — with  life-blood  splash'd; 
Sons  sink  beside  their  gray-hair'd  sires. 

Sister,  by  brother,  bleeding  lies, 
While  louder  roar  the  raging  fires 

And  blacker  scowl  the  stormy  skies. 


XLIII. 

The  high  debauch  had  higher  swelPd, 
Brimm'd  to  the  lip  the  wine  was  held, 
Hark!  the  first  whoop!  the  scout  turns  pale? 
Another  quavers  on  the  gale 
Arm!  arm,  the  savage  comes!  too  late! 
The  foe  is  bursting  through  the  gate, 
Stern  Mantet,  with  his  yelling  horde, 
Bounds  on  the  wild  recoiling  board, 


43  THE     BURNING      OF 

Halberd  meets  hatchet,  bayonet,  knife, 
But  vain  the  struggle — short  the  strife! 
Lock'd  in  stern  throttle  to  the  last, 
The  scout,  beneath  his  foe,  was  cast, 
Each,  who  so  late,  the  goblet  drain'd, 
Fell  by  the  danger  he  disdain'd; 
But,  scorning  mercy  in  his  pride, 
Each  strove  and  struggled  till  he  died. 


XLIV. 

On,  on,  the  torrent  rolls  its  wrecks, 
But  now  its  might  a  barrier  checks. 
From  a  strong  fort-like  dwelling,  dart 
Quick  streaks  of  death;  with  dauntless  heart 
Vrooman  is  there,  his  hearth  to  save, 
Or,  in  its  ruins,  find  his  grave. 
Shrill  peal  the  whoops  around  his  walls, 
But  at  each  shot,  a  foeman  falls, 


S  CHE  NECT AD Y  .  49 

Pours,  from  without,  the  leaden  rain, 
He  hurls  the  death  ball  back  again: 
From  loop  to  loop  he  quickly  bounds, 
Quickly  his  fatal  musket  sounds,  • 
In  the  fierce  fire-flood's  lurid  glow 
Reddening,  all  round,  like  blood,  the  snow, 
The  grim  and  threatening  looks,  he  sees, 
Of  his  barr'd,  furious  enemies, 
Some,  at  the  loops,  aim  fruitless  ball, 
Some  shake  the  door-bolts,  but  to  fall, 
He  marks  their  gestures  wild  with  rage, 
But  still  his  shots  the  contest  wage: 
Thus  on  he  strives — the  smoke  clouds  fill 
Each  stifling  room — he  struggles  still: 
Ha!  is  yon  door  ajar!  he  flies — 
A  shriek — his  wife  beside  him  dies. 
With  madden'd  strength,  he  dashes  back 
An  entering  savage  on  his  track: 
Again  his  bullets  smite  his  foes, 


50  THEBURN1NGOF 

Again  the  door  defies  their  blows: 
He  starts — is  that  his  daughter  speeding 
Bearing  his  infant?  back!  but  vain — 
He  hears  a  sudden  cry  of  pain — 
Down  dash'd,  his  mangled  child  is  bleeding. 
Yet  dauntless,  he,  the  fight  prolongs, 
Till,  spent  with  toil,  the  baffled  throngs 
As  the  foiPd  panther  slow  withdraws 
Growling,  from  oft  repeated  leaps, 

Leave  him,  proud  meed  all  efforts  worth ! 
With  fame  that  still  tradition  keeps, 

A  conqueror  at  his  household  hearth! 
A  victor  in  a  holy  cause ! 


XLV. 

Many,  meanwhile,  had  sought  to  win 
Safety,  the  forest-depths  within  ; 
Half-clad — each  snowflake  stings  afresh 


SCHENECTADY.  51 

Their  bleeding,  raw,  yet  freezing  flesh, 

Now,  in  the  hollows,  plunging  deep. 

Now,  through  the  twin'd  swamp,  forc'd  to  creep, 

The  roof-flames  touching  into  grim 

And  spectral  shapes,  trunk,  stump  and  limb ; 

Frequent,  from  cave  and  thicket-lair, 

They  hear  deep  growls — see  eye-balls  glare, 

Dark  gliding  figures  cross  their  way 

Howling  and  gnashing  for  their  prey, 

Whilst  now  and  then,  shrieks,  blending  dread 

With  snarls  and  clicking  teeth,  denote 
Some  doom'd  wretch,  from  his  torpid  bed, 

Waking,  with  wolf- fangs  at  his  throat. 
But  on  they  press,  for  yells  and  screams, 

Borne  wildly  by  the  raging  wind, 
And  the  doom'd  hamlet's  burning  gleams 

Tell,  that  destruction  is  behind. 


52  THE     BURNING      OF 

XLVI. 

The  lingering  morning  dawn'd  at  last; 

Bright  wheel'd  the  sun  the  mountains  o'er, 
Away,  the  furious  storm  had  pass'd, 

Nature,  in  quiet,  slept  once  more. 
Stainless  the  sky,  save  where  one  spot 
Spread  o'er  the  blue,  a  darkening  blot, 
As  though  a  frowning  demon  hover'd 
Above  a  scene  his  blight  had  cover'd; 
The  foe  was  gone,  but  sad,  oh,  sad 
The  scenes,  of  late,  so  bright  and  glad; 
There,  were  charr'd  beam,  and  blacken'd  wall, 
And  rafter  tottering  to  its  fall, 
Here,  a  pale  waste  of  ashes,  there 
Coals  kindling  in  the  keen  cold  air: 
Fragments,  half  burn'd,  of  door,  and  shed, 
And  household  things,  around  were  spread, 
From  some,  the  flames  yet  fitful  broke, 
Slowly  from  others  ooz'd  the  smoke; 


SCHENECTADY.  53 

Upon  the  hard  stamp'd  snow,  smirch' d  o'er 
With  mingled  stains  of  soot  and  gore, 
Heaps  of  gash'd  mangled  limbs  were  strew'd, 
By  blood  and  frost  together  glued, 
Amidst  the  fortress-ruins  lay 
Wrecks  of  crush' d  forms,  in  sad  array, 
All  scorch' d  and  blacken' d  with  the  flame 
That  had  not  paused  its  prey  to  claim; 
Vrooman's  strong  blockhouse  still  arose, 
Spar'd  to  his  valor  by  his  foes, 
And  still  the  church  its  fabric  rais'd, 
Its  firm  stone  walls  with  smoke  o'erglaz'd, 
With  a  few  roofs,  that,  scatter'd  round, 
Protection  from  the  torch  had  found. 


XLVII. 

At  length,  a  wretched  throng,  toil-spent 
With  the  night's  freezing  banishment, 


54  THEBURNINGOF 

Came  crouching  through  the  woods,  but  nought 

Of  life,  was  in  the  scene  they  sought; 

All,  all  was  lone  and  silent  there, 

Death,  grimly  frowning  with  despair. 

Yet  not  despair — a  holy  strength 

Enters  their  bleeding  hearts,  al  length; 

Within  those  sacred  walls,  unriven, 

As  though  to  point  the  soul  to  heaven, 

They  breathe  the  solemn  prayer,  and  raise 

In  thankful  strains,  the  song  of  praise, 

To  Him — the  Holy  One,  above, 

Who  gives  and  takes  in  wisest  might, 
Who  chastens  in  His  tender  love, 

Who  is  the  Way— the  Truth— the  Light. 


XLVIII. 

Quickly,  the  forest  region  through, 
The  tidings  of  the  slaughter  flew; 


SCHENECTADY.  55 

Tionondaga's  wigwams,  where 

The  sparkling  Mohawk  waters  marry 

The  bright,  the  beautiful  Schoharie 
Sent  shouts  of  vengeance  on  the  air: 
Smok'd  is  the  council  calumet, 
The  blazon' d  battlepost  is  set, 
Each  robe  is  mark'd  with  hostile  types, 
The  war-paint  shows  its  gleaming  stripes, 
And  bounding  fiercely  in  the  ring, 
Hatchet  and  club  wild  brandishing, 
Each  savage  rocks,  with  stamping  feet 
To  guttural  song,  and  drum's  dead  beat, 
Now,  front  to  front,  they  swing,  and  wield 
Their  weapons,  as  in  battle-field, 
Plunging  the  knife — the  hatchet  swaying, 
Feature  and  limb  convulsive  playing, 
Till,  at  the  short  shrill  whoop,  again 
Each  follows  each,  in  circling  train. 


56  THE     BURNING      OF 

XLIX. 

The  war  dance  o'er,'  each  warrior  speeds. 

His  mind  but  one  fierce  vengeful  thought. 
Upon  the  stealthy  trail  that  leads 

To  where  the  late  dark  deeds  were  wrought. 


L. 

The  hardy  colonists  too  rose 

To  follow  the  retreating  foes ; 

The  rifle  from  its  nook  was  taken, 

The  axe  lay  on  its  pile  forsaken, 

The  mountain,  down  the  hunter,  sent, 

The  settler  from  his  clearing  went, 

The  shingle- weaver  left  his  camp, 

The  glen's  snow  show'd  the  woodman's  tramp. 

The  lumberer  chain' d  his  jarring  mill, 

Each  busy  haunt  was  lone  and  still, 


SCHENECTADY.  57 


As  all,  with  bosoms  firm  and  true, 
Quick  gather'd  to  the  rendezvous. 

LI. 

Winter's  wild  voice  was  in  the  woods, 

His  ermine  robe  o'er  all  was  cast, 
But  quickly  through  the  solitudes 

The  rous'd  and  stern  Avengers  pass'd; 
Houndlike,  the  foe's  trail,  tracking  swift, 
They  laugh'd  to  scorn  the  blast  and  drift. 
And  well  amidst  the  fleeing  band, 

Hatchet  and  musket,  knife  and  blade 
With  reckless  and  unsparing  hand 

The  midnight  massacre  repaid. 
Long  did  the  memory  of  that  trail 
Turn  the  fierce  Caughnewaga  pale, 
When,  boasting  in  the  lodge  and  dance, 

His  fiendish  deeds  of  blood  and  flame, 
O'er  his  wrild  mind,  in  transient  glance, 

The  horrors  of  that  vengeance  came, 


THE     BURN  ING      OF 

And  long  did  ruthless  Frontenac 
Remember  the  invader's  blow 

Though  striking  deep,  is  beaten  back, 
By  right,  in  two-fold  force  and  woe. 


LII. 

But  oh  !  though  on  La  Moyne  fell  not 

Quick  vengeance;  yet  all  aftertime 
Made  his  dark  life  a  dreary  lot, 

The  fearful  meed  for  fearful  crime! 
A  wandering  miserable  man — 
He  liv'd  beneath  a  blighting  ban; 
And  when  the  vulture  ceas'd  to  gnaw 

His  bleeding  heart,  where  cedars  join 
Their  gloomy  shades  of  shuddering  awe, 

In  a  deep  chasm,  was  laid  La  Moyne. 
And  when  too,  winds  and  melting  snows 
Had  swept  the  bones  from  their  repose, 


SCHENECTADY.  59 

The  hollow  echoed  to  the  cries 

Of  wolves,  fierce  fighting  for  their  prize. 

LIII. 

Amid  a  soft  and  sylvan  scene. 

Where  the  light  graceful  willow  wept, 

And  roses  drap'd  a  fairy  screen, 
Sybrant  and  Lyntie  sweetly  slept. 

In  vernal  days  the  robin  made 

Fler  nest  within  the  budding  shade; 

When  glow'd  the  moon-crown'd  summer  night 

The  mounds  were  bath'd  in  holy  light, 

Rich  autumn  shower' d  his  dyes,  and  shed 

His  hazy  sunshine  o'er  the  dead, 

And  pure  smooth  robes  e'en  winter  gave 

To  deck  and  guard  each  peaceful  grave. 


60  THE     BURNING      OF 

LV. 

And  now  the  pine,  whose  mighty  life 

Was  green,  in  that  wild  winter  night, 

Not  two  short  hundred  rings  have  twin'd; 
The  eagle,  that  when  rose  the  strife, 

From  his  steep  eyrie  wheePd  his  flight, 
Still  launches  vigorous  on  the  wind  ; 
The  mountains  still  uprear  their  sides  ; 
Below,  the  lovely  river  glides; 
But  oh,  the  scene  how  chang'd!  how  bright 

The  valley  with  its  sloping  belts — 
How  wide  beneath  the  gazer's  sight 

The  glorious  landscape  smiles,  and  melts; 
Green  wave-like  meadows,  here,  are  spread, 
There,  woodland  shades  are  sweetly  shed, 
In  deepening  gold,  there  glows  the  wheat, 
And  there  the  rye-field's  vying  sheet, 
Rich  honied  odors,  here,  are  borne 

From  buckwheat  blooms  by  breezes  kiss'd, 


SCHENE  C  TAD  Y  .  61 

There,  furrow'd  ranks  of  tassel'd  corn 

Fade  greenly  in  the  summer  mist: 
Where  stood  grim  fort  and  palisade, 
Thick  roofs  and  spires  are  now  display 'd; 
Where  whoops  arose,  and  life-blood  flow'd, 
Steam  shoots  along  its  iron  road; 
Where  frown'd  the  forest  wide  and  dark, 
The  smooth  canal  now  bears  its  ark; 
And  round,  in  myriad  numbers,  press 
The  signs  of  peace  and  plenteousness. 


NOTE. 


At  the  breaking  out  of  hostilities  between  France  and  England  in 
1690,  Frontenac,  Governor  of  Canada,  despatched  three  expeditions, 
one  destined  against  New-York,  one  against  New-Hampshire,  and 
one  against  Maine.  That  destined  against  New-York,  was  composed 
of  about  two  hundred  French,  of  whom  Mantet,  La  Moyne,  Montigni 
and  Repentigni  were  officers,  and  fifty  Caughnewaga  Indians  led  by  the 
Great  Agnier,  all  wearing  the  paint  and  dress  of  the  natives.  After  a 
twenty-two  days'  march  of  the  greatest  hardship,  through  wild  and 
continuous  forests,  blocked  with  the  snows  of  a  northern  winter, 
beating  their  path  by  the  aid  of  snow  shoes,  the  party  on  the  morn 
ing  of  the  8th  of  February,  1690,  came  to  within  a  few  miles  of  Sche- 
nectady,  then  the  frontier  post  of  New-York. 

The  hostile  operations  of  the  expedition  had  been  originally  de 
signed  against  Albany,  but  the  plan  being  changed,  scouts  were  sent 
forward  to  reconnoitre  Schenectady,  which  was  now  determined  upon 
as  the  point  of  attack.  The  inhabitants  relying  upon  the  immense 
tract  of  snowy  wilderness  that  lay  between  themselves  and  Quebec, 
and  the  severity  of  the  season,  entertained  no  apprehension  of  dan 
ger,  and  the  scouts  entered  the  village,  without  molestation  or  even 
exciting  suspicion.  Although  the  place  was  surrounded  by  a  pali 
sade,  and  maintained  a  garrison,  the  gates  of  the  former  were  left  con 
tinually  open,  and  the  soldiers  of  the  latter  kept  but  a  relaxed  and  in 
efficient  guard. 

The  night  of  the  8th  fell  with  a  strong  tempest  of  wind  and  snow. 
Such  was  the  security  felt,  that  the  sentinels,  whose  duty  it  was  to 
guard  the  two  gates  with  which  the  palisade  was  pierced,  stationed 
images  of  snow  at  their  posts,  and  went  to  a  wedding  that  took  place 
that  evening.  At  midnight  the  French  and  Indians  stole  from  their 
covert  and  entered  the  village  through  one  of  the  open  gates  with 
out  obstruction.  Dividing  themselves  into  small  parties  they  sur- 


NOTE.  63 


rounded  and  set  fire  to  almost  every  dwelling,  and  waged  indiscrimi 
nate  slaughter  amidst  the  surprised  and  unguarded  inhabitants.  The 
garrison  was  forced  and  after  a  feeble  resistance,  the  soldiers  were 
destroyed  and  the  fort  burned. 

The  only  effectual  defence  was  made  by  Adam  Vrooman,  who,  from 
his  dwelling,  returned  the  fire  of  the  enemy  with  fatal  effect  and  al 
though  he  saw  his  wife  and  child  perish  in  the  conflict,  persevered  in 
his  resistance  until  he  not  only  succeeded  in  repelling  his  assailants, 
but  extorted  fvom  them  a  promise,  if  he  would  cease  from  his  efforts, 
that  his  life  should  be  saved,  and  his  building  spared  from  the  flames, 
which  promise  was  performed. 

A  few  of  the  villagers,  escaping  from  the  fury  of  the  onset 
fled  into  the  forest,  and  with  several  Mohawk  Indians  who  hap 
pened  to  be  in  the  place,  and  whose  lives  were  protected  through 
the  policy  of  the  French,  carried  the  first  news  of  the  massacre 
throughout  the  adjoining  country.  The  Indian  settlement  at  the  con 
fluence  of  the  Mohawk  river  with  the  Schoharie  creek  sent  their 
warriors  who,  joined  by  the  white  inhabitants  scattered  through  the 
wild  region,  struck  the  trail  of  the  retreating  enemies,  and  amply  re 
venged  by  the  slaughter  of  a  large  number  of  the  invaders,  the  in 
human  barbarities  perpetrated  at  Schenectady. 


POEMS, 


"  SEEK  AND  YE  SHALL  FIND.'5 


A  fair  young  girl,  one  golden  summer  day 

Was  wandering  through  a  wood.     The  two  whose  love 

Guided  the  tottering  steps  of  infancy, 

Had  gone  on  high  to  wear  bright  wings  and  raise 

Sweet  anthems  with  the  angels  ;  she  was  left 

The  world's  wild  tempests  to  sustain  alone. 

Yet  had  her  mind  been  filPd  with  love  for  God, 

Taught  that  He  e'er  was  present,  that  His  eye 

Look'd  always  on  her,  and  His  holy  arm 

Circled  her  in  protection  :  and  when  Death 

Was  fastening  heavenward  pinions  to  the  one 

The  last  to  leave  her,  as  a  mother's  voice 

Trembled  upon  her  ear,  she  heard  in  awe? 

Heard  as  her  tears  fell  fast,  that  voice  implore 

The  Father,  Him  who  reigns  in  highest  heaven, 

To  look  upon  the  helpless  child  on  earth, 


4  SEEK     AND      YE     SHALL      FIND. 

And  guide,  and  guard  and  bless  her.      Since  that  hour 

Oh  !  ever  after,  did  her  childish  heart 

Thrill  and  hush  deep  within  itself,  as  thought 

Wafted  that  death-bed  scene,  and  in  her  ear 

That  sad,  sad  voice  was  whisper'd.     She  had  look'ds 

In  the  soft  twilight,  hour  of  balm  and  dew, 

In  the  deep  night  magnificent  with  stars, 

In  golden  morn,  and  in  the  gorgeous  set 

Of  the  proud  sun,  and  ask'd  in  prayer  for  God,. 

For  God,  her  Father!  and,  oh  blessed  thought! 

The  Father  of  the  lov'd  ones  pass'd  away. 

Eut  nought,  oh  nought  had  met  her  eye  or  ear 

To  tell  her  of  His  presence.     She  was  sad. 

Her  footsteps  now  were  straying  in  the  bright 

And  glorious  summer  noontide.     Fresh  and  green 

The  leaves  hung  round  her;  overhead  the  sky 

Seem'd  one  bright  smile  ;  rich  streaks  of  sunshine 

glanc'd, 

Like  pointing  fingers  through  the  crowded  stemsr 
And  little  birds,  with  soft  ton'd  songs  that  seem'd 


SEEK  AND  YE   SHALL   FIND. 

Tun'd  for  her  ear,  flew  round  her  ;  tiny  flowers 

Wooing  her  touch  were  nestling  in  their  nooks, 

And  all  was  peace  and  beauty.     On  a  mound 

Sloping  like  velvet,  sank  her  girlish  form. 

Soft  murmurs  in  the  grass,  a  purling  voice 

In  the  near  rill,  a  low  deep  organ  tone 

Thrilling  the  pine  tree,  lulPd  each  sense,  and  sleep 

Glided  across  her  with  its  downy  touch. 

The  ground  bird  tripp'd  beside  and  look'd  askance 

Then  whirr' d  away.     The  squirrel  gaz'd  and  bark'd, 

And  leap'd  into  its  bush.     A  straying  fawn 

Bleated  in  fear  as  his  large  staring  eye 

Met  the  prone  form,  and  still  she  slumber' d  on. 

A  sweet,  sweet  dream  enchain' d  her  :  in  her  view 

Two  radiant  shapes,  around  which  sparkled  still 

The  light  that  flashes  from  the  "  great  white  throne,' 

Stood,  every  moment  brightening,  and  soft  sounds 

Like  far-off  echoes,  crept  upon  her  ear. 

The  pure  forms  pointed  round — the  melting  tones 


SEEK  AND   YE   SHALL   FIND. 

Bade  her  eyes  open  and  behold  her  God  : 
Just  then  a  robin  lit  upon  the  pine 
Pouring  a  gush  of  music,  and  she  woke. 
A  mist  seem'd  vanishing  from  her  eye — a  veil 
Seem'd  waving  from  her  mind.     She  look'd — a  light 
Steady  and  clear,  stream' d  broad  within  her  heart, 
And  she  saw  God.     Yes!  God  was  in  the  sky 
Cloudless  and  bright  above  her;  in  the  flower 
That  breath'd  beneath;  in  the  rich  fmger'd  gold 
Of  the  slant  sunshine;  in  the  emerald  leaves 
O'er  canopied  :  His  voice  was  in  the  grass 
Murmuring  around — the  stream  and  organ  pine; 
And  bending  low  her  knee  and  shedding  tears 
More  sweet  and  soothing  than  she  e'er  had  known 
She  lifted  up  her  childish  voice  and  pray'd. 


ANGLING. 


The  south  wind  is  breathing  most  sweetly  to-day, 
The  sunshine  is  veiPd  in  a  mantle  of  gray, 
The  Spring  rains  are  past,  and  the  streams  leap  along 
Not  brimming  nor  shrunken,  with  sparkle  and  song, 
'Tis  the  month  lov'd  by  anglers — 'tis  beautiful  June! — 
Away  then,  away  then,  to  bright  Callikoon! 


A  narrow  wild  path  through  the  forest  is  here, 
With  light  tiny  hoof-prints,  the  trail  of  the  deer! 
Beside  and  above  us,  what  splendor  of  green! 
The  eye  can  scarce  pierce  the  dense  branches  between, 
How  lightly  this  moss-hillock  yields  to  the  foot! 
How  gnarl'd  is  yon  bough,  and  how  twisted  that  root  \ 
What  white  and  pink  clusters  the  laurel  hangs  out, 
The  air  one  deep  hum  from  the  bees  all  about! 


AN  GLING  . 

The  chestnut — 'tis  gala  day  with  her — behold 
Her  leaves  nearly  cover' d  with  plumage  of  gold! 
Whilst  thick  in  the  depths  of  the  coverts  below. 
The  blackberry  blossoms  are  scatter' d  like  snow. 
High  up,  the  brown  thresher  is  tuning  her  lay, 
The  red  crested  woodpecker  hammers  away, 
The  caw  of  the  crow  echoes  hoarse  from  the  tops, 
The  horn  of  the  locust  swells  shrilly  and  stops, 
While  knots  of  bright  butterflies  flutter  around, 
And  seeks  the  strip'd  squirrel  his  cave  in  the  ground. 


We  break  from  the  tree-groups;  a  glade  deep  with  grass; 

The  white  clover's  breath  loads  the  sense  as  we  pass, 

A  sparkle — a  streak — a  broad  glitter  is  seen 

The  bright  Callikoon  through  its  thickets  of  green ! 

We  rush  to  the  banks — its  sweet  music  we  hear, 

Its  gush,  dash  and  gurgle  all  blent  to  the  ear, 

No  shadows  are  drawn  by  the  cloud-cover'd  sun, 


ANGLING. 

We  plunge  in  the  chrystal,  our  sport  is  begun. 
Our  line  where  that  ripple  shoots  onward,  we  throw, 
It  sweeps  to  the  foam-spangled  eddy  below, 
A  tremor — a  pull — the  trout  upward  is  thrown, 
He  swings  to  our  basket — the  prize  is  our  own. 


We  pass  the  still  shallows — a  plunge  at  our  side — 
The  dive  of  the  muskrat,  its  terror  to  hide. 
A  clamor  is  heard,  spots  are  darting  from  sight — 
The  duck  with  her  brood  speeding  on  in  affright. 
A  rush — the  quick  water-snipe  cleaving  the  air — 
We  pass  the  still  shallows — our  prey  is  not  there. 


But  here,  where  the  trunk  stretches  half  o'er  the  brook, 
And  slumbers  the  pool  in  a  leaf-shadow'd  nook, 
Where  eddies  are  dimpling  and  circling  away, 
Steal  gently,  for  here  lies  the  king  of  our  prey. 
Throw  stilly — if  greater  the  sound  meets  his  ear 


10  ANGLING. 

Than  the  burst  of  a  bubble,  you  strike  him  with  fear: 
How  cautious  his  touch  of  the  death-hiding  bait. 
The  rod  now  is  trembling;  wait!  patiently  wait! 
A  pull — raise  your  line,  yet  most  gently — 'twill  bring 
The  credulous  victim  more  sure  to  his  spring, 
A  jerk,  and  the  angle  is  bent  to  its  length,  [strength! 
Play  the  line  from  the  reel  or  'twill  break  with  his 
He  darts  round  in  foam,  but  his  vigor  is  past, 
Draw  steadily  to  you — you'll  have  him  at  last! 
Raise  up,  but  beware  that  strong  struggle  and  gasp, 
And  the  noble  snar'd  creature  is  rilling  your  grasp. 
How  bright  with  the  water-gloss  glitters  the  pride 
Of  his  brown  clouded  back,  red  and  gold  spotted  side ! 
But  we  leave  the  reft  scene  of  the  dead  monarch's  reign 
Like  a  despot  that  moves  on  to  triumph  again. 


The  voice  of  the  rapid  now  burthens  the  air, 
Approach,  for  our  prey's  crowded  city  is  there! 


ANGLING.  11 

Here  whirlpools,  there  eddies,  here  stillness, there  foam, 
We  ply  well  our  efforts — no  further  we  roam. 
Our  baskets  we  fill,  but  our  muscles  are  tired, 
And  a  shade  in  the  sky  tells  that  day  has  expired; 
The  robin  has  chaunted  his  vespers  and  flown; 
The  frog  from  the  creek  has  commenc'd  his  trombone; 
The  spider  has  ceas'd  his  slight  furrow  to  show; 
The  brown  sprawling  shrimp  seeks  the  pebbles  below; 
The  bank  then  we  clamber,  our  home-path  resume, 
The  torch-bearing  fire-fly  to  lighten  the  gloom, 
And  dreams  of  our  sleep-fetter' d  pillow  restore 
Our  day-sport,  distorted  but  pleasing,  once  more. 


FAITH. 

If  that  high  faith,  whose  holy  beam, 

The  future's  midnight,  turns  to  day, 
.Be  but  delusion's  feverish  dream, 

Returning  reason  sweeps  away, 
Oh  who  could  nerve  against  despair, 

When  storms  surround  the  staggering  bark ! 
Oh  who  his  wearying  burthens  bear 

Along  a  path  so  cold  and  dark  ! 


The  keen  regret — the  wasting  grief, 

The  tears  that  make  life's  daily  showers, 

Oh  where  from  these,  could  come  relief  ! 
Oh  where  !  if  that  dark  creed  was  ours ! 

Better  at  once  to  end  our  pain, 

In  the  hush'd  grave  our  sorrows  cast, 


FAITH. 


13 


Then  drag  along  a  galling  chain 
And  have  no  goal  to  reach  at  last. 


But  if  that  Faith  that  heavenward  glows, 

Sheds  on  our  hearts  its  radiance  clear, 
Then  come,  oh  Earth!  with  all  thy  woes! 

We  care  not  for  our  trials  here. 
The  soul,  the  soul  can  never  die, 

Away  all  clouds  will  soon  be  driven, 
Its  goal  is  yonder  glorious  sky, 

Its  everlasting  home  is  heaven. 


THE  FORSAKEN  ROAD. 

In  the  deep  shadows  of  the  -wilderness. 

Arbor5  d  by  branches  a  forsaken  road 

Winds  on  in  two  faint  wheel-marks:  striping  now 

The  soft  black  mould,  now  hidden  by  the  leaves 

Dropp'd  at  the  breath  of  Autumn,  seaming  here 

The  hollow  wet  with  oozing  springs,  and  there 

Trac'd  lightly  on  the  firm  and  level  glade. 

Now  it  is  lost  within  a  sward  of  grass 

Spread  pleasantly,  with  scatter'd  groups  of  trees, 

A  place  to  lie  in,  when  the  summer  sun 

Throws  broken  gold;  thence  winds  it  through  the  shade, 

With  time-stain'd  blazes  on  the  thronging  trunks 

Slic'd  either  hand.     Within  the  densest  spot, 

A  pine  has  stretch' d  its  giant  barricade, 

Bulging  with  knots  and  fork'd  with  splinter' d  twigs, 

The  shroud-like  moss  o'ermantling;  as  it  lies 


THE      FORSAKEN      ROAD.  15 

So  motionless,  so  powerless  in  decay, 
I  start  to  think  its  shatter'd  summit  once 
Flaunted  its  daring  challenge  to  the  storm 
And  told  its  fall  in  thunder.     Still  the  wreck 
Hath  pleasant  uses;  its  high  twining  roots 
Are  chambers  for  the  squirrel,  and  its  frame 
Keeps  bare  a  stripe  of  mossy  nut-strew' d  earth 
From  the  white  drift  that  blocks  the  opposite  side, 
So  that  the  tenants  of  the  base  might  steal 
In  the  brief  glimpses  of  the  winter  sun 
To  find  the  scatter'd  treasures. 

Onward  still 

I  trace  the  road;  tall  saplings  in  the  midst, 
Then  tawny  grain-crack' d  fragments,  crumbling  fine 
As  my  foot  sinks  within  them,  then  a  mound 
Of  the  sweet  low-stemm'd  wintergreen,  a  bridge 
Of  logs  then  lying  crosswise  o'er  a  stream, 
Gaping  with  chasms  and  tottering  dank  with  age 
A  frail  support ;  until  the  stone  pil'd  wall 


16  THE      FORSAKEN     ROAD. 

Cuts  sharp  across,  and  smiling  farm-fields  hide 
All  traces  of  the  pathway. 

As  I  tread 

The  lonely  road,  now  scaring  with  my  steps 
The  whizzing  partridge,  hushing  with  my  form 
The  thresher's  song,  and  baring  with  my  knife 
The  darken'd  hack  o'erlaid  with  bark  and  rings 
That  years  have  circled,  I  give  rein  to  thought, 
And  images  throng  round  me.     First  the  deer 
Seeking  the  lick,  leaves  prints:  the  midnight  wolf 
Scenting  his  prey,  tramps  o'er:  the  red  man  fierce, 
Treads  in  the  faint  but  noted  marks,  lest  moss 
And  mould  should  show  his  trail.     In  after  years 
His  compass  the  surveyor  stakes,  and  carves 
Rude  letters  on  the  trees  that,  gifted  thus 
With  language,  tell  the  windings  of  the  way. 
And  then  the  emigrant's  huge  wagon-tent 
Gleams  whitebetween  the  trunks,  withhousehold  goods, 
Pil'd  in  and  dangling  round,  and  midst  them  group'd 


THE      FORSAKEN      ROAD.  17 

Childhood  and  matron  age,  the  flock  and  herd 
Straggling  behind,  the  patriarch  and  his  sons 
Loitering  before  with  axes,  hewing  wide 
The  underbrush,  and  bridging  o'er  the  streams, 
And  kindling  in  the  dell,  when  frowns  the  night, 
Their  bivouac  for  slumber. 

Then  with  toil 

The  settler  trudges  o'er,  his  shoulders  bent 
Beneath  his  burthen  from  the  distant  mill, 
To  feed  his  famishing  children.     And  as  Time 
Smooths  the  rough  clearing  to  the  smiling  field, 
The  heavy  wagon  jolts  across  the  roots 
To  the  far  market,  and  the  tardy  wheel 
Therefrom  bears  loads  of  rustic  merchandize. 
And  then  as  scatter'd  walls  of  logs  are  merg'd 
Into  thick  village  roofs,  the  forest  road 
Is  left,  for  the  smooth  spacious  thoroughfare 
Linking  the  hamlet  to  the  river-side. 


18 


THE     FORSAKEN     ROAD. 


How  Jike  this  lonely  road,  the  track  of  life! 
Our  infant  steps  are  Fear's.     Dark  Cruelty 
And  fierce  Revenge  then  tread  upon  their  way; 
Till  later  Reason's  compass  points  our  course, 
Marking  the  path  with  prudence.     Daring  Hope 
The  Pioneer,  its  bosom  freighted  deep 
With  all  our  feelings,  follows;  hewing  down 
The  barriers  with  the  edge  of  energy, 
Bridging  o'er  Fortune's  many  adverse  streams, 
And  lighting  sorrow's  frequent  night  with  flame 
Of  solace  till  the  morrow.     Trials  come — 
Endurance  hath  succeeded  Hope,  and  still 
We  tread  beneath  the  burthens  of  our  care, 
For  those  we  love  are  cherish'd.     Then  as  home 
Brightens  to  comfort;  in  our  daily  path 
We  reap  reward  of  hardship;  and  as  joys 
Cluster  around  us,  the  smooth  easy  path 
Of  peaceful  being  leads  us  to  the  grave; 
And  the  rough  early  road  is  shunn'd,  for  Time 


THE      FORSAKEN     ROAD.  19 

To  shroud  its  varied  surface  from  our  thoughts; 

With  proud  Ambition  lying  prone  across, 

A  dead  and  shattered  wreck;  yet  sheltering  close 

(Its  fragments  turn'd  by  dire  experience 

To  holier  use  than  when  it  stood  erect,) 

By  stern  remembrance  of  its  miseries, 

Its  wrestling  warfare  and  its  rending  fall. 

Home  feelings,  and  the  gentle  ties  of  love 

From  perishing  in  the  snow  drift  of  the  world. 


DEER  SHOOTING. 


The  east  is  now  dappled  with  dawning  of  light. 
To  the  woods  for  the  deer  e'er  the  sun  is  in  sight! 
The  white  frost  has  spread  its  fresh  silver-like  veil, 
And  if  a  hoof  passes,  it  tells  us  the  tale, 
The  hound  in  swift  gambols  darts  hither  and  yon, 
We  shoulder  our  rifles  and  rapidly  on. 


Each  limb  how  elastic,  how  bracing  the  air! 
Hurrah,  boys,  what  know  we  of  sorrow  or  care! 
Our  veins  tingle  wild  with  delight,  as  we  feel 
The  breath  of  the  autumn  morn  over  us  steal; 
The  herds  to  their  pastures  are  wending  along, 
And  hark!  the  first  robin  has  burst  into  song! 
The  hawk  leaves  the  pine,  in  slow  circles  to  sail, 
And  in  the  brown  stubble  field  whistles  the  quail: 


DEER     SHOOTING.  21 

Tread  faster!  for  now  the  deer  glides  from  the  shade 
To  drink  at  the  streamlet,  and  feed  in  the  glade, 
If  longer  we  loiter^  we'll  seek  him  in  vain, 
He'll  soon  make  his  couch  in  the  thickets  again. 


His  haunts  we  approach;  creep  on  cautious  and  slow, 
The  stir  of  a  branch  our  dread  presence  will  show, 
His  haunts  we  approach;  scan  the  glade-grass,  and  look 
For  his  prints  in  the  soft  oozy  marge  of  the  brook. 
Here's  a  dash  of  the  moss  from  the  rock;  there  has  sunk 
His  hoof  in  the  brown  brittle  dust  of  the  trunk; 
Lead  the  hound  to  yon  thicket!  these  tracks  all  around 
Proclaim  that  the  runway  at  last  we  have  found. 


His  rich  rainbow  banner  hath  Autumn  unroll'd, 
The  woods  blaze  in  splendors  of  crimson  and  gold, 
The  leaves  cutting  sharp  on  the  soft  sapphire  sky 


22  DEER   SHOOTING. 

Are  clusters  of  jewels  suspended  on  high, 

The  dream-like  and  delicate  light  melting  through 

Seems  chang'd  where  it  falls  to  an  opal-like  hue, 

So  vivid  and  brilliant  the  colors  that  glow 

On  the  undergrowth  spread,  like  a  carpet,  below; 

With  canopy  o'er,  rich  as  monarch  could  claim, 

And  rifle  on  shoulder  I  wait  for  the  game. 

As  breathings  I  hold,  the  hound's  music  to  hear, 

The  trickle  of  waters  comes  meek  to  my  ear; 

His  hollow-ton'd  trill  the  dark  cricket  repeats; 

Like  watch-ticks,  the  spider's  quick  regular  beats; 

And  in  contrast,  the  glee  of  the  grasshopper-throng, 

With  the  catydid's  solemn  monotonous  song; 

Then  wearied  with  listening,  I  smile  as,  in  ire 

The  milksnake  out-launches  his  prong'd  tongue  of  fire, 

And  on  the  prone  beech,  the  coxcombical  crow 

Struts  lordly,  as  if  his  black  plumage  to  show; 

But  hark  to  that  sound  stealing  faint  through  the  wood! 

Heart  hammers,  breath  thickens,  swift  rushes  the  blood  \ 


DEER      SHOOTING.  23 

It  swells  from  the  thicket  more  loud  and  more  near 
Tis  the  hound  giving  tongue!  he  is  driving  the  deer! 
My  rifle  is  levelPd — swift  tramplings  are  heard — 
A  rustle  of  leaves — then,  with  flight  like  a  bird, 
His  antlers  thrown  back,  and  his  body  in  motion 
With  quick  rise  and  fall  like  a  surge  of  the  ocean — 
His  eyeballs  wide  rolling  in  frenzied  affright — 
Outbursts  the  magnificent  creature  to  sight. 
A  low  cry  I  utter;  he  stops — bends  his  head, 
His  nostrils  distended,  limbs  quaking  with  dread; 
My  rifle  cracks  sharp — he  springs  wildly  on  high, 
Then  pitches  down  headlong,  to  quiver  and  die. 


On  the  trail  now  comes,  leaping  and  panting,  the  hound, 
And  I  hear  the  shrill  whoop  of  my  comrade  resound; 
Up  wheels  the  broad  sun — his  fresh,  joy  giving  light 
The  innermost  depths,  striking  quick  into  sight, 
A  twitter  and  flutter  awake  in  the  trees, 


24  DEER     SHOOTING. 

The  stream  casts  its  white  curling  breath  to  the  breeze; 

As  under  our  burthen  we  stagger  along 

The  sociable  wren  bids  good  morrow  in  song, 

But  the  chatterbox  squirrel  is  swelling  with  wrath 

And  stamping,  lets  drop  his  brown  nuts  in  our  path, 

We  heed  not  his  antics,  but  trudge  on  amain, 

And  stand,  spent  with  toil,  at  our  threshold  again. 


HOME. 


Home  of  the  soul!  thy  light  appears 

A  star  to  guide  man's  gloomy  way, 
When,  pilgrim  in  this  waste  of  years, 

His  faltering  step  is  turn'd  astray; 
Hope  lends  her  pinions  to  his  feet, 

Faith  sheds  its  balm  within  his  breast, 
And  tireless,  on  he  speeds  to  greet 

Prize  of  his  toils!  the  goal  of  rest. 


Darkly  the  night  hath  frown'd  on  high, 
Roughly  the  path  before  hath  spread, 

And  the  fierce  tempest,  sweeping  by, 
Hath  beat  upon  the  wanderer's  head. 

But  through  the  night,  streams,  pure  and  warm 
Upon  the  path,  a  pointing  ray, 


26  HOME. 

A  hand  is  with  him  in  the  storm, 
To  lead  and  guard,  console  and  stay. 


Oh  who  would  linger  here,  when  Home 

Hath  bliss  that  Fancy  never  drew ! 
Oh  why  should  footstep  ever  roam ! 

When  heaven  shines  o'er  our  mental  view! 
Home,  glorious  Home!  earth's  darkest  sky 

And  stormiest  path,  we  calmly  brave, 
For  the  bright  wafting  wings  that  lie 

In  waiting,  for  us,  at  the  grave 


SPEARING. 


The  lake's  gold  and  purple  has  vanished  from  sightf 
The  glimmer  of  twilight  is  merg'd  into  night, 
The  woods  on  the  borders,  in  blackness  are  mass'dy 
The  waters  in  motionless  ebony  glass'd, 
The  stars  that  first  spangled  the  pearl  of  the  west 
Are  lost  in  the  bright  blazing  crowds  of  the  rest; 
Light  the  torch! — launch  the  boat! — for  to  night  we 

are  here, 
The  salmon,  the  quick-darting  salmon,  to  spear. 


We  urge  our  light  craft  by  the  push  of  the  oar 
Through  the  serpent-like  stems  of  the  lilies  near  shore. 
We  turn  the  sharp  prow  at  yon  crescent-shap'd  cove, 
Made  black  by  the  down-hanging  boughs  of  its  grove- 
The  meek  eddy-gurgle  that  whirls  at  our  dip, 
Sounds  low  as  the  wine-bead  which  bursts  on  the  lipr 


28  SPEARING. 

On  the  lake,  from  the  flame  of  our  torch,  we  behold 

A  pyramid  pictur'd  in  spangles  of  gold  ; 

The  marble-like  depths  on  each  side  of  the  blaze 

Are  full  of  gray  sparkles,  far  in  as  we  gaze; 

The  loon  from  his  nook  in  the  bank,  sends  a  cry, 

The  night-hawk  darts  down,  with  a  rush,  through  the 


In  gutturals  hoarse,  on  his  green  slimy  log 
To  his  shrill  piping  tribe,  croaks  the  patriarch  frog, 
And  bleat,  low,  and  bark,  from  the  banks,  mingle  faint 
With  the  anchorite  whippoorwilPs  mournful  complaint. 


We  glide  in  the  cove — let  the  torch  be  flar'd  low! 
The  spot  where  our  victim  is  lurking,  'twill  show, 
Midst  the  twigs  of  this  dead  sunken  tree-top  he  lies, 
Poise,  comrade,  your  spear!  or  farewell  to  our  prize! 
It  darts — to  the  blow  his  best  efforts  are  bent, 
A  white  bubbling  streak  shows  its  rapid  descent, 
He  grasps  it  as  upward  it  shoots  through  the  air, 


SPEARING.  29 

Three  cheers  for  our  luck! — the  barb'd  victim  is  there! 
Give  way  boys!  give  way  boys!  our  prow  points  to 

shore, 

Give  way  boys!  give  way  boys!  our  labor  is  o'er. 
As  the  black  mass  of  forest  our  torch-light  receives, 
It  breaks  into  groups  of  trunks,  branches  and  leaves: 
Low  perch7  d  on  the  hemlock,  we've  blinded  with  light 
Yon  gray-headed  owl! — see  him  flutter  from  sight! 
And  the  orator  frog,  as  we  glide  with  our  glow, 
Stops  his  speech  with  a  groan,  and  dives  splashing 

below, 

One  long  and  strong  pull — the  prow  grates  on  the  sand, 
Three  cheers  for  our  luck,  boys!  as  spring  we  to  land. 


MOONLIGHT. 

From  her  blue,  sky-thron'd  height 
The  moon  looks  down  upon  the  silent  scene, 

Changing  the  gloom  of  night 
To  sparkling  silver,  with  her  magic  sheen. 


A  solitary  cloud 
Steals  o'er  her  orb  which  paints  a  halo  there, 

On  floats  the  transient  shroud 
Curls  by  that  star-gem,  and  dissolves  in  air. 


Yon  lofty  mountain-pile 
Prints  its  dark  shadow  on  the  glittering  ground, 

Its  peak,  like  some  far  isle 
Looming  o'er  billowy  vapors  wreath'd  around. 


M  00  NL  I  G  HT  .  31 

Within  the  templed  wood 
I  wander  lone;  sublimely  still  it  stands 

Enshrin'd  to  solitude, 
A  green  majestic  fane  "  not  made  with  hands." 


There  frowns  Night's  blackest  hue — 
And  there  a  gleam  is  shot  along  the  grass 

Seeming  to  Fancy's  view, 
Spread  for  the  fairies  of  the  spot  to  pass. 


Moonlight! — it  hath  a  spell 
Of  memory  like  low  music  heard  in  sleep, 

Visions  too  bright  to  dwell, 
And  thoughts  that  come  and  sadden  till  we  weep. 


And  blest,  oh  blest  those  tears! 
The  present's  stern  realities  depart : 


MO  ONL I CH  T  . 


And  other,  happier  years 
Crowd,  with  their  sweet  old  feelings,  to  the  heart. 


The  cedar's  pillar'd  shade 
Streaks  the  wild  path;  and  steep'd  in  lustrous  gloss, 

Where  spreads  yon  dewy  glade, 
Gleam  on  my  eye,  the  thickets,  grass  and  moss. 


My  grateful  brow  I  bare 
To  the  soft  fragrant  wind-kiss;  in  thy  sight 

The  darkness  of  despair 
Brightens  to  hope,  oh  pure  and  holy  night! 


These  silver' d  leaves  and  flowers — 
Yon  rich  broad  sky,  God's  mighty  banner  spread — 

Mountain  and  forest-bowers — 
A  sacred  awe  upon  my  spirit  shed. 


THE     OLD     BRIDGE.  33 

One  prayer,  as  low  I  kneel, 
That  when  Death's  night  succeeds  Life's  stormy  day, 

My  sin-freed  soul  may  feel 
A  heaven-sent  calmness  as  it  glides  away. 


THE  OLD  BRIDGE. 


Through  a  lone  landscape,  creeps  a  marshy  stream: 
Dead  trees  have  fallen  across,  and  wither'd  twigs 
Float  on  its  stealing  surface;  where  it  shrinks 
In  narrowest  line,  the  fragments  of  a  bridge 
Still  stre;ch,  though  in  decay.     Its  platform  once 
Of  lopp'd  pine  saplings,  two  hew'd  trunks  sustain'd. 
But  now  the  point  of  one  foundation-log 
Slants  deep  within  the  mire,  and  not  a  trace 
Is  witness'd  of  the  causeway. 


34  THE      OLD      BRIDGE. 

When  the  bridge 

Lay  in  its  perfect  shape, — foot,  hoof  and  wheel 
Pass'd  o'er  its  sturdy  frame,  the  forest  twin'd 
Its  leafy  bowers  around,  and  through  its  vault 
The  bright  bank-brimming  streamlet  merrily  danc'd. 
But  the  keen  axe  has  swept  its  way  amidst 
The  woodlands,  leaving  here  and  there  a  tree, 
And  summer  suns  have  drank  the  streamlet's  fount, 
Until  the  waters  filter  through  the  marsh 
On  which  the  remnants  rest  midst  pools  of  slime, 
Grass-tufts  like  streaming  hair,  and  sedges  green 
Pointing  like  daggers.     But  the  ruin  still 
Has  life  and  beauty  round  it,  and  itself 
Forms  to  the  eye  a  picture.     Timid  Spring 
Smiles  with  her  violet-eyes  from  mossy  nooks, 
And  on  its  taper  stem  the  lily  hangs 
Its  snowy  bell  rich  tongu'd  with  downy  gold. 
The  chirping  snipe  alights  and  balances 
Its  gray- white  shape;  the  woodcock  darts  in  line 
Upward  at  morn,  but  drops  again  at  eve, 


THE     OLD      BRIDGE.  35 

To  feed  upon  the  ooze  beneath  the  logs. 

One  mighty  pine,  amidst  the  straggling  trees. 

Lifts  its  unchanging  pyramid  to  heaven; 

And  when  the  sun  is  slant  upon  the  scene, 

The  moss  that  clothes  the  fragments  of  the  bridge 

Glows  like  green  velvet,  the  pine-top  is  bath'd 

In  golden  lustre,  whilst  the  streaming  light 

Touching  the  remnants,  makes  a  broad  bright  track, 

Between  them,  and  the  sunset-portals  spread 

As  though  to  let  the  eye  pierce  through  to  heaven. 


An  emblem  art  thou,  rude  and  moulder'd  wreck! 
Of  Age  decay'd  and  tottering.     Strong  in  youth 
Man  bears  his  burthens;  Life's  green  objects  stand 
In  myriads  round  him,  and  his  feelings  glide 
In  pure  unwasted  brightness  through  his  breast. 
But  Time's  hand  grasps  his  form;  it,  shatter'd,  sinks: 
Keen  disappointment  strikes  the  objects  down 
Until  they  lie  in  wrecks;  his  feelings  shrink 


36  THE     OLD     BRIDGE. 

Beneath  the  glare  of  fierce  reality, 
Until  they  creep  amidst  the  slime  and  weeds 
Of  craft  and  selfishness:  with  broken  frame. 
Age  rests  then  in  the  mire  of  slow  decay. 
But  he  is  not  forsaken:  childhood  smiles 
Brightening  his  weary  hours  with  merry  looks; 
Affection  hangs  above  his  couch  of  pain 
A  human  blossom  ;  volatile  youth  draws  near 
Pleas'd  with  his  presence;  ardor  oft  forsakes 
His  counsel,  soars  aloft,  but  comes  again 
To  learn  new  wisdom,  e'er  he  wings  afresh. 
Midst  the  few  scatter' d  objects  left  to  him. 
One  changeless  hope  looks  upward  to  the  sky. 
And  as  Life's  sun  slants  low,  it  touches  him 
With  sanctity,  illumes  the  towering  hope 
To  more  resplendent  light,  and  makes  the  space 
That  separates  from  the  portals  of  the  grave, 
A  golden  pathway  between  him  and  heaven. 


THE  END. 


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